Unintended
by girloficeandfire
Summary: Sandor rescued Sansa from the Vale and took her home to Winterfell, but things haven't quite gone as either of them hoped.
1. Two Lost Souls

- Inspiration: Several songs, including but not limited to - "Unintended" by Muse ("You could be my unintended, choice to live my life extended...you could be the one I'll always love...you could be the one who listens to my deepest inquisitions, you should be the one I'll always love...I'll be there as soon as I can but I'm busy mending broken pieces of the life I had before...")  
"Wish you were here" by Pink Floyd ("we're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year, running over the same old ground...what have we found? the same old fears. wish you were here...")  
"We are Broken" by Paramore ("keep me safe inside your arms like towers, tower over me...'cause we are broken, what must we do to restore our innocence, and oh, the promise we adored? give us life again, 'cause we just wanna be whole...")  
"Sing for Absolution" by Muse ("sing for absolution, I will be singing...and falling from your grace...there's nowhere left to hide, in no one to confide...the truth burns deep inside, and will never die...lips are turning blue, a kiss that can't renew...I only dream of you...my beautiful...")

- Disclaimer: You know, the usual - I own none of this, GRRM is god of Westeros and its people, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

* * *

"He's come again, my lady."

"_Again_?" _Why can't he just leave well enough alone?_

"Yes...again." Brienne's mouth twitched, and Sansa wondered if it was from amusement...or concern. "Perhaps you should simply agree to see him, this time."

Sansa sighed. "You know that I want nothing to do with him. I know how charming he is, and I know that he was at one point working with Littlefinger. I would never be able to marry Harrold Hardyng, and it's time he got that through his head."

"Perhaps he's not so very bad..."

"Oh, Brienne, You're consistently seeing the best in people who don't deserve as much from you. Or from anyone." Brienne opened her mouth to reply, but Sansa shook her head. "You don't need to say it. I must marry - I _know _that I must - and I know that there are few men in Westeros who are fit to wed the Lady of Winterfell. I've heard it all a thousand thousand times. But despite his handsome appearance and his title and his money, I could never bring myself to take the cloak of Harrold Hardyng."

"Still...perhaps you should at least _see _him...he has been quite patient, even waiting in Wintertown to meet with you after you denied him guest right in Winterfell."

Sansa leaned back and eyed Brienne with consternation. "I liked you better when you were quieter and not so sure of yourself. This new Brienne is Ser Jaime's doing; don't think I don't know that."

"If you won't wed Lord Hardyng, perhaps you should respond to the Martells? King Doran is offering you a choice between Quentyn and Trystane, and we hear wonderful things of both - "

"Quentyn is a kind, intelligent man, but he does not wish to wed me any more than I want to wed him. He still spends most of his time hiding in his rooms, thinking on dragons. And Trystane was promised to Myrcella Lannister..." Sansa felt tears well in her eyes, and she turned her head away so that Brienne would not see. Joffrey's and Cersei's deaths had felt like small triumphs to her, but the losses of Myrcella and Trystane had cut her to the core. They had been sweet children...they had deserved so much better than the hands they'd been dealt.

"My lady, I hope it is not Prince Quentyn's scarring that - "

"Scarring? You think that I would deny a man's offer for something so silly as a few burn scars?" Sansa realized that she sounded a bit shrill, and she forced herself to take a deep breath before continuing. "Prince Quentyn belongs in Dorne, as I belong in Winterfell. And Rickon...Rickon needs a man with a firm hand. Quentyn is too quiet, too sad. Trystane would be happy to sit behind a cyvasse board for the rest of his life. And don't bring up Willas Tyrell, either," Sansa snapped as soon as Brienne opened her mouth again. "He has been forced to handle enough broken things in his life...he is worthy of a lady far superior to myself."

She knew that Brienne didn't deserve...well, any of this. But the truth of the matter was that Sansa had been betrothed to Joffrey for far too long after she'd realized what he was...and then she'd been passed off on Tyrion despite the fact that she'd not wanted him, either. Then came Littlefinger and his insistence that she wed Harrold Hardyng, though she'd known - of course - that Littlefinger really wanted her for himself. She was tired of people pushing and pulling her one way or another, and she was no longer even sure that she _wanted _to be married...but of course, whether or not she even had a choice in the matter was another issue entirely.

"Sansa! Who's the man outside in the yard?"

Sansa found herself pressing her fingertips against her temples; she closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. "No one of import, Rickon," she sighed. She knew that she should chastise him for being so loud, blunt, and forward, but she just didn't have it in herself to do so right now. She already wondered - far too often - whether her youngest brother would ever be mature enough to rule Winterfell. He was fierce, and smart, and he loved her...she knew all of these things...but he was also untrained, unlearned, and in constant fear that she would leave him as everyone else had once done...which caused him to lash out. Often.

_Far too often._

The only person who could keep Rickon Stark in check was, to Sansa's dismay, Sandor Clegane. She thought of him now, as she always did when Rickon seemed about to cause trouble...though she would rather that he didn't cross her mind _quite_ so often. After all, he'd made it extremely clear how he felt about her - or rather, how he _didn't _feel. He'd been silent and sullen when he'd arrived in the Vale to whisk her away, and had seemed more than grateful for the company and the distractions provided by Brienne and Jaime when they had shown up just as she and Sandor had crossed into the Riverlands. All of this had taken place years ago, of course...yet her relationship with Sandor Clegane was still to this day fraught with tension and frustration.

Oh, he'd stayed with her - _that_, she couldn't deny. But she simply couldn't forget that when she'd finally confronted him about the Battle of the Blackwater - confronted him about finding him in her bed, about how he'd held a knife to her throat, forced her to sing for him, _kissed_ her - he'd merely laughed at her in that rough way that he had. But then, not just his usual barking laugh - Sandor Clegane had seemed to not be able to _stop_ laughing. Sansa had quickly gathered that he was highly amused about the idea of having kissed her, and by the old gods _and _the new, she'd never been so embarrassed in her entire life. She'd argued with him for a moment, thinking that perhaps, as drunk as he'd been, he had merely forgotten about kissing her - or that he simply hadn't remembered doing so in the first place - but then he'd brushed her off and given up being adamant, and in doing so he'd somehow proven to her that he was telling the truth.

Things had been, if anything, even _worse _since then. Though Sandor had sworn himself to her in the Vale, and done so again upon reaching Winterfell...though he'd taken Rickon under his wing and been an amazing help with that wild young boy...though he'd fought for her, killed for her, guarded her...though he'd been a quiet yet reliable addition to Sansa's life...

_I should have sent him away. Months ago. _Years_ ago._

The thing was, Sansa knew why she didn't want to marry any of the proper suitors that were presented to her - for so long, she'd dreamt of Sandor, and somehow those dreams hadn't just stopped, not even when she was with him, not even when she understood that he'd never kissed her, not even when he'd not expressed any interest in her as more than a charge to be taken care of.

Deep down, she wanted him and only him, and it seemed that nothing could possibly change that.

* * *

He'd been schooling Rickon on swordwork in the yard when the handsome lord arrived and asked after Sansa. Sandor had seen him several times in recent days, and though he'd been amused to find out that she wouldn't allow the young man to stay at Winterfell, he had to admit that the lordling's persistence was worrisome.

"HA!" Rickon suddenly crowed. He'd caught Sandor off guard and given his teacher a good hard whack with his practice sword. Sandor grimaced; the boy had caught him on his bad thigh. He glared at his student for a moment before jerking his chin in the direction of the clearly uncomfortable guest.

"Who's that?" Sandor growled. Rickon glanced at the lordling and shrugged.

"Someone come for my sister, thinkin' to take her away from home," the boy stated. He sounded almost resigned to the idea of losing Sansa, and for once Sandor felt the need to reassure another person - surely Sansa would not leave Winterfell, which meant that she would not leave Rickon, and surely someone should tell the boy as much. _I probably only want to tell him this because I need to reassure myself of the same thing._

"Your sister's not gonna fly away anywhere. This is her home, and she means to stay here."

Hope shone clearly in Rickon's eyes as he looked up at Sandor. "Well _I_ wanna find out who he is," the boy said decisively. Before Sandor could even attempt to stop him - _not that I want to_, he admitted to himself - Rickon had dropped his practice sword and trotted away, presumably to Sansa's solar, which was where she could usually be found at this time of day. Sandor gathered up the young wolf-boy's sword and carried it to the makeshift armory, depositing it - and his own practice sword - against the wall there before following Rickon's path, wondering if anyone would realize that he did so with the express intent of being near Lady Sansa Stark, rather than to merely do his job of curbing Rickon Stark's sometimes problematic behavior.

Sandor wasn't even sure how he'd become the youngest Stark's nursemaid in the first place, though he harkened back to how awful Rickon had been when that onion arse had first returned the boy to Winterfell...and how pleased Sansa had been when Rickon actually responded to Sandor's firm but caring attitude toward him.

_She was surprised as well_, Sandor reminded himself, forcing himself to recall the ensuing conversation.

"Clegane," she'd called him when he entered her solar. She'd asked to see Sandor after witnessing him tricking Rickon out of a terrible fit with a practice sword and the promise of lessons.

"M'lady," he'd mumbled. Though Sandor still thought of her as _little bird _from time to time, he'd not called her that once since finding her in the Vale. "What would you have of me?"

Sansa had looked at him thoughtfully. "You were...helpful, today. With Rickon." She hadn't tried to hide her surprise.

"Aye. And what of it?" Sandor had growled, annoyed that she would be so shocked that he could handle a mere child.

"Well, if you think you could be so helpful on a more..._regular_ basis...I hoped perhaps you would spend time with my brother. Teach him to fight. Perhaps you're not the best person to show him how to curb his anger, but he responded better to you than he has to anyone else since his return, and at this point I'm willing to take what I can get." Sansa had pursed her lips as if inviting him to argue with her, but at that moment Sandor had decided he didn't have that sort of fight in him. _What, did you think she'd shower you with gratitude, with gifts, or...perhaps even _kisses_? More fool, you. You owed her that rescue, and she owes you nothing in return. Not after what you put her through in King's Landing._

And so Sandor had taken Rickon under his wing. This meant less time standing around watching over Sansa...but perhaps that was, after all, for the best.

Or at least that's what he told himself, especially when he couldn't sleep at night for thinking of her. Especially when, on days like today, he followed Rickon when the boy went to find Sansa, to voice some new complaint or ask some new impertinent question. Especially when he found himself jealous of the close proximity to Sansa that both Brienne of Tarth and Jaime _fucking _Lannister enjoyed.

_Seven hells_. Several times a day he told himself that the less he saw of Sansa, the better off he was...and yet he apparently didn't believe this enough to walk away, for he certainly could have done so by now. Several times over.

And yet he was still here. Still sworn to her. Still practicing at swords with her brother. Still scoffing at Brienne's general disgust in regards to him, and at _Ser_ Jaime Lannister's constant and terrible japes. True, at first thought Sandor had not a clue as to where he could or would go, should he leave Winterfell...but then he'd never _tried_ to leave. _Or even _thought_ about trying._ And he knew that the little bird would never give him reason to truly desire to do so...not like the Lannisters had. Sansa was simply too good, and he was too much a fool for her...despite the fact that he could never hope to be more than another of her minions.

* * *

"What's _impor_t?"

Sansa gazed sadly at her brother. Rickon definitely needed more schooling and less sword practice, but Sandor certainly wouldn't be a proper teacher, and Sansa doubted that Rickon would obey Maester Sam. Kind and intelligent the chubby young man might be, but able to teach a wild young thing like Rickon? Decidedly _not_.

"It means that who he is doesn't matter," Sansa clarified. Rickon seemed to chew on this for a moment, but finally his face brightened.

"Does that mean I can tell him to go away? I _am _Lord of Winterfell, after all."

"I wish you could tell him to go away, Rickon. But as the Starks in Winterfell, we do - unfortunately - need to be polite."

Rickon curled his lip and seemed about to retort, but just then Sandor came blustering in. Sansa noted that her little brother quickly bit his tongue, which could only be thanks to Sandor's presence. _Why must he make himself so useful_? It was nearly impossible to bear, at times. _Gods, you've had these thoughts before, and far too many times at that. Stop. Just stop._

"Sorry, m'lady. He ran off almost at first sight of your...visitor." Despite the apologetic words, Sandor's tone sounded as insolent as usual. Sansa pursed her lips and glared at him.

"I suppose you've given up on teaching him any sort of discipline, then?" she retorted. Sandor raised an eyebrow at her words, the burnt corner of his lips twitching in annoyance.

"I'm no nursemaid, _my lady_. You of all people know that."

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, wishing that Sandor wouldn't say such things, things that brought her back to a time and place that she wished would stay buried and forgotten in her past. _He does have a knack for being unkind at the absolute worst of times. _"Of course," she finally stated, her tone as flat and unfeeling as she could possibly make it. "How could I forget." On a whim, then, Sansa turned to Brienne. "Tell Lord Hardyng that I will meet with him on the morrow. Also, send a note to Queen Daenerys, asking if she has any proper Lords in mind who are looking to wed a Lady of some means. I think you're right; it's past time that I found myself a husband."

Brienne was clearly shocked at this sudden turn of events, but Sansa merely gave her a curt nod to show that she meant what she was saying just now. Rickon's voice rose in a general outcry, but Sansa ignored her brother, though her heart broke when she glanced at him and saw the betrayal written plainly across his face. "Clegane, take my brother back outside and see that he finishes his lessons with you. When you are done, he's to meet with Maester Sam. It's past time he started learning to be a proper lordling."

For a moment she wondered if Sandor would refuse; she could practically _feel_ the anger emanating from him as he leveled his seething gaze on her. But Sansa abstained from meeting his eyes; finally, Sandor gave a frustrated grunt and placed one large hand across Rickon's upper back, guiding the boy from the room. This job proved easier than Sansa would have expected; Rickon appeared to be so surprised at his sister's sudden firmness that he could do nothing but obey her orders. _And perhaps that's all he's needed, all this time._

"My lady," Brienne said softly, as soon as Sandor and Rickon had stepped out of the solar and wouldn't be able to hear any further conversation. "Are you _certain_ about this course of action? I feel that I must ask, before I tell Lord Hardyng that he is...welcome...to return tomorrow and have an audience with you. And...pardons, my lady, but a letter to the _Queen_?"

"Yes, Brienne," Sansa replied impatiently. "If I say that I will meet with Lord Hardyng tomorrow, I will do so. And if I ask you to send a letter to the Queen, _you_ will do so. Understood?" Again she was being unnecessarily short with one of her most beloved and loyal friends, but at the moment Sansa didn't care to chastise herself over _that_. She'd had enough of feeling terrible on this particular day...and she had a feeling that the coming days, weeks, and months were going to be far more difficult, now that she'd finally resolved herself to wed some lord - and to forget about Sandor Clegane.


	2. Things Unresolved

_Well, she sure as seven hells showed you up, didn't she? _Sandor wasn't sure whether he was angrier with Sansa...or with himself. He had a feeling that she'd made the decision to allow this Lord Hardyng into her presence merely to spite him, but there had been something in the stubborn set of Sansa's jaw that reminded him far too much of her wolf-bitch of a little sister.

It made him think that Sansa would in fact marry, finally. And soon. And then where would he, Sandor, be? He couldn't imagine staying here at Winterfell, having to swear fealty to the man who took Sansa to wife...but he could no more imagine that than he could imagine leaving Winterfell to follow Sansa to some other lord's holdfast.

Rickon had already - and obediently, for once - gathered their practice swords from the armory, but the boy's efforts to concentrate seemed to be in vain, and as Sandor wasn't able to focus on their work either, he certainly couldn't hold Rickon's lack of attention against him. "Go on up to the Maester's rooms with ya," Sandor finally ordered. Rickon looked relieved to be released, and though Sandor was fairly certain that the boy wouldn't actually go to see Maester Sam, he refused to push the issue.

Unfortunately, when Sansa later learned that Sandor hadn't brought Rickon to Maester Sam as he'd been told to do, the general punishment was that Rickon's sword practice was put on hold while he learned letters and numbers and "other such important things" from the fat, cowardly Maester. This meant quite a bit of free time for Sandor - and it also left him torn in regards to whether or not he should spend it guarding Sansa as he used to do, or working with some of Winterfell's newer guards.

As more time passed, however, Sandor tended toward the latter. He simply couldn't stand to watch Lord Hardyng fawn over the little bird, nor did he care to hear the missives that came from far and wide once the Dragon Queen had received Sansa's request for the names of the marriageable men of Westeros.

"I know what you're doing, Clegane, and you can't avoid her forever," Jaime Lannister chided Sandor one day after they'd had a particularly rough bout of sword practice together.

Sandor snorted. "You've got no idea what you're talking about, _Kingslayer."_

Jaime rolled his eyes. "How very droll of you, _Hound. _I would have expected you to come up with a better slur for me by now. And truth be told, I have severalideas as to what I'm talking about - most of them involve you not being such an arse to Lady Sansa, if you must know. It's past time for her to marry, and you should be by her side, helping as needed, as she tries to choose a proper husband - as Brienne and I have been."

"Yeah, well, I'm not you or Brienne," Sandor snarled.

A flash of annoyance marred Jaime's still-handsome features for a moment, but receded as he quickly collected himself. "No," Jaime sighed. "You're not. And it's for that very reason that you should be far more concerned about Sansa's recent decisions than we are...and yet instead you ignore them, ignore _her_. If you had any idea what's been going on - "

"I don't _want _to know, _Ser_ Jaime. And I'm not sure why you can't get that through your thick skull."

Jaime watched Sandor silently for several long moments, then finally shrugged. "All right then, have it your way." He turned and walked away, leaving Sandor to stare after him, clenching and unclenching his fists in anger. What in the seven hells had the fucking Kingslayer meant when he said that Sandor had no idea what had been 'going on'? _I have every __idea about what's been going on, which is why I can't stand to be around her right now!_

After all these years, after all he'd seen and all he'd learned, how could Jaime Lannister be so damned _dense?_

* * *

She didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved that Harry, sweet as he could be at times, held no interest for her - and apparently no interest _in _ her, either.

"There will be others, my lady," Brienne promised. "You are one of the great beauties of Westeros; everyone knows it." The large, ungainly woman sounded a bit wistful as she said this, and though Sansa was sure that she knew why, she knew it would be best to keep her pity to herself. She waved Brienne's compliment off with a chuckle.

"It's no matter, Brienne. You know that I didn't want him...but I must admit, I'm glad that I gave him a chance. He's not so bad, is he?"

Brienne's lip twitched. "He's a bit of a rake, to be honest."

"True," Sansa agreed, laughing. "But it's all in good fun, I think. Ah well, I suppose part of me will be sad to see Harry go back to the Vale...if only because it means that the next set of suitors is coming up the Kingsroad to try their best to woo me into marriage." The mirth left her tone as a sudden seriousness seized her. "I know that Queen Daenerys probably thinks it's fun, not revealing the names of who she is sending, but it merely makes me nervous."

"Ah, Lady Sansa. The Dragon Queen adores you; she'd not send anyone - shall we say - _questionable,_" Jaime Lannister reassured her. Sansa smiled her thanks.

"Ser Jaime! I didn't hear you arrive. You look a fright, you know." He was covered in dirt and a fine sheen of sweat; the sleeve of his right arm, usually so carefully tied over the stub of his wrist, had even come undone.

"Yes, thank you, I know," he replied sarcastically. "I was in the practice yard with Clegane just now. He - "

"Don't." Sansa held up her hand and gave a quick jerk of her head. _I can't bear to hear of him. Not now. _They were worse than strangers lately, after all, and she had to keep telling herself that she was getting used to it. She'd done her best to not let her thoughts of Sandor effect the way that she felt about Harrold Hardyng, and now she had to make sure that they also didn't effect her opinions of the men that the Queen had sent.

There had been another name put forward, as well - not by himself, as it were, though when Sansa had confronted this person, his reaction had shocked her more than a little bit. Truth be told, she hadn't quite thought of him as someone she could marry until the handful of people who had dared bring up his name expressed their own surprise that she _hadn't _thought of him like that.

"Why not someone whom you already know well, someone whom you already care about?" The question hadn't been worded exactly the same by Maester Sam, by her cousin Jon, by Queen Daenerys...but Sansa had felt the surprise of all three of her good friends and had suddenly known that while they had never suspected the feelings that she harbored for Sandor Clegane, they certainly believed that she had a hidden love.

They simply assumed that it was Jaime Lannister.

Sansa had laughed when she'd told Jaime of this discovery, but her laugh had been cut short when she'd seen that he wasn't reacting quite the same way. Instead his face flushed red and he avoided meeting her gaze. This response of his had left her more than a little speechless, at first...but now that at least a sennight had passed since their ensuing conversation, Sansa found that more and more she was thinking that perhaps it would be nice to make the easy decision and, as Sam and Jon and Dany had put it, simply go ahead and marry someone who she already knew and already cared about..._if I can ever put Cersei out of mind, _she often reminded herself. Yet Jaime had not mentioned his deceased twin as he explained to Sansa that he would make her a good husband - and that their match would be exactly what was needed to calm any concerns that the Dragon Queen might have about Sansa Stark making a powerful marriage alliance.

"I know that I may not be what you hoped or planned for, my lady," her golden knight had said in a firm, grave tone. "But you know that I am devoted to you. I dare say that many people would be quite content if we were to end up together."

She'd raised an eyebrow and sighed. "And many more who would not care for it." Tyrion came to mind; he may have allowed their marriage to be annulled, but to find that she'd then bound herself to his handsome brother in his stead?

_And what of Brienne?_

What of _Sandor?_

"All I ask is that you think on it," Jaime requested.

"As you have done?" she pressed, wondering if her concern showed through, though she tried to hide it.

Jaime nodded and took her hands in his. "I have, Sansa."

She'd looked into his eyes and known that he meant every word that he said...but though she loved him for it, loved him for rescuing her from Petyr, loved him for his devotion to her...Sansa did not love Jaime Lannister the way a woman _should _love a husband. And she didn't think that he loved herthe way a man should love a wife, either. Besides - "I must grant an audience to the men who have traveled so far to meet me," she reminded Jaime.

"Of course," he agreed. "And Sansa...I...I don't want you to...to _settle _for me. You understand that, right? If one of these other men...in fact, if anyother man...were to appeal to you..."

Suddenly Sansa saw..._everything._ Jaime did care for her, perhaps more than he would admit to her or even to himself - and he was offering his life to her knowing that she would never feel quite so strongly about him, because he knew that she loved someone else.

And she was certain that Jaime knew _who _she really wanted, as well.

* * *

One by one the men from the South came trickling in to Winterfell. Some bore names and faces that Sandor had never before seen; others looked vaguely familiar.

And a few, he remembered all too well. Podrick Payne, for one, raised up high right along with the Imp when that man had been made Hand of the King...Humfrey Hightower, a bit old for Sansa perhaps, but youngest son of a great family...and _- gods -_ even Tyrek Lannister, back from the dead. Or rather, back from where Lord Varys had tucked him away until the Dragon Queen had reclaimed Westeros and needed someone to seat at Casterly Rock.

It was clear that these three would be the men truly vying for Sansa's affections. Though not born with a good family name, Podrick Payne had connections, gold, and even a bit of land - and he'd grown from a gangly, pimply youth into a handsome man of solid build. Humfrey Hightower was older than Sandor, but had retained the gallant nature and fine, strong features of his family line.

And Tyrek..._Fuck me, _Sandor swore to himself. The young man was Jaime Lannister come again, the young golden god that Lancel Lannister had never quite been, even at his peak. And if the rumors were true - that Tyrek's time apart from his family had led to his growing into a kind, intelligent, and fair lord - then there was no question that he had everything going for him.

Every single one of them disgusted Sandor, because how could they ever know the little bird the way _he _did? What she had been through, and how she still persisted in romanticizing everything despite it all? How kind she was, but how firm she could be when things weren't going her way...and she wanted them to do so? How much she loved Rickon and Winterfell, and how she'd never be quite so happy living any place else?

Or was he kidding himself, thinking that she didn't want to leave here? Perhaps now that Westeros had settled into a peaceful - and possibly everlasting - summer, Sansa would prefer to make her way South again, where she could spend more time at court and dote on the Dragon Queen?

Could he really claim to know her the way he wanted to _believe _he did? If Sandor was honest with himself, the answer to that question was probably 'no'. Perhaps once, back when they were first reunited, he had been able to see into the little bird's heart and mind. She'd _wanted_ him to do so - he'd known this, and he'd fled from it, telling himself that he could never deserve her, could never repay her for the wrongs he'd done.

That he could never have her the way he wanted her, and that he didn't want to face that knowledge time and time again.

But now Sandor looked at these so-called suitors of Sansa's, and wondered if perhaps he'd given up too easily. Would Podrick Payne or Humfrey Hightower or Tyrek Lannister truly make the little bird happy? Or, at least, would any one of them be able to give her the devotion and adoration that she deserved?

Would any one of them allow her to be her own person?

Suddenly Sandor realized that as he'd mused over this utter nonsense, he'd practically strode right up onto Sansa and Jaime Lannister's heels as those two walked together, presumably making their way from the glass gardens to the Great Hall. He noted with some chagrin the way that Jaime had rested his left hand - _his only hand, _Sandor thought meanly - across the small of the little bird's back, and the way she seemed to lean in to the Kingslayer's tall, golden form as if...well, fuck. As if Jaime was more than a mere trusted friend and confidante.

_Much _more.

Now that he'd stopped in his tracks, Sandor couldn't help but watch Sansa and Jaime's progress as they walked toward the holdfast - and as he watched them he recalled how Jaime had spoken to him during their most recent conversation. Had the Kingslayer been trying to warn Sandor that he was about to stake his claim to Sansa Stark?

Was 'warn' even the proper word for it, when it was entirely possible that Jaime Lannister knew that Sandor felt more than he should for their mutual charge? Did the Kingslayer think that he was worthy of her, when the fact of the matter was that _no one _was worthy of her?

This last thought crossed Sandor's mind just as Sansa and Jaime disappeared into the holdfast, and with it came the sudden realization that if no one was truly good enough for Sansa Stark, than he - Sandor - should, just maybe, be presenting himself as an option. What was the worst that could happen?

_She could laugh at you. She could rail at you. She could refuse you as kindly and courteously as she is like to do, but she would be refusing you all the same._

Yet in the end, any one of these options seemed vastly more appealing than seeing her wed to Jaime Lannister...or more appealing than watching her give herself to Podrick Payne or Humfrey Hightower or, gods forbid, Tyrek Lannister...and suddenly, Sandor knew that he had no choice but to throw his lot in with those of Sansa Stark's other suitors. True, he had little and less to offer her - no gold, no great holdfast of his own, and not even a handsome face.

But he'd loved her longer than he cared to admit, and he would continue to love her until the end of his days. He recalled how she had insisted that he'd kissed her, that night that he'd gone to her room and stolen a song from her by knife point...how hurt she'd been when he'd laughed at her. She hadn't understood that he'd been laughing more at himself and the hope that had sprung up within him at her admission than at the idea that she misremembered that horrible night...and Sandor had never been able to bring himself to explain all of this to her.

Now, though, he would. He owed her that...that, and so much more.

He owed her everything that he was, for she was the Maiden who he truly believed in, body, heart, and soul.


	3. Absolution

Surrounded by handsome men who flattered her at every turn, Sansa knew that she should be enjoying herself immensely...yet she seemed to only feel comfortable and happy during the hours she spent with Ser Jaime, whose sarcastic commentary about their guests - most especially his own cousin Tyrek - was the only thing that brought a smile to her face, these days. Jaime had taken to calling Tyrek 'Wet Nurse', a nickname that should have been long forgotten, as the baby he'd been forced to marry had disappeared during the war, never to be seen again.

"Oh Jaime, you _shouldn't,_" Sansa chastised him, though even as she did so, she could not keep herself from smiling.

_Had I simply never opened my heart to him like this before? _she wondered...but then she would catch a glimpse of Sandor sparring with Rickon or grooming Stranger or sharpening his sword, and she would be reminded - yet again - that she would never desire Jaime Lannister as she'd once desired Sandor Clegane.

_As you _once___ desired him? Don't be a foolish, stupid little bird, Sansa Stark. _

Little bird. Sandor hadn't called her that since their time in King's Landing, and Sansa knew that this fact was an important one, though she couldn't quite place how or why she knew this.

One day Jaime found her in the glass gardens. She'd been tending to her winter roses, the blue ones that her aunt Lyanna had supposedly loved so much, and she'd simply broken down. It seemed that the stress of having to choose a husband from the several wonderful men who'd come to Winterfell - wonderful men who she honestly didn't care about one bit - was finally breaking her, Sansa knew. Jaime had come to bring her back to the Great Hall, her presence apparently being needed there, but when he saw that Sansa was practically falling apart he merely sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms.

"Why don't you tell him how you feel, Sansa," Jaime murmured dejectedly.

She sniffled and turned her red-rimmed eyes toward him in confusion. "Beg pardon?"

"Sansa, you know that I care about you, and I believe that you care for me as well. But I'm not the man you want, and I won't ever be. You'd be better off with me, perhaps, than with Payne or Hightower or that damnable Wet Nurse cousin of mine, but didn't I tell you not to settle? Even with me?"

"You...you did..." Sansa admitted, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. "But - "

"But, nothing," Jaime interrupted, gently laying a finger over her lips. "You and Sandor Clegane are both utter fools for each other; unfortunately, the two of you are the only people in Winterfell who don't seem to understand as much. And he's an angry sort of fool who surely knows that he doesn't deserve you...so it's you who will have to take the first step."

"I...I beg your pardon..." Sansa stuttered. "But I don't...I don't think that would be...wise..."

"Of course it wouldn't." Jaime threw his hands up, clearly exasperated. "But Sansa...wouldn't it be nice for you to _not _make the 'wise' choice, for once? Wouldn't you rather follow your heart?"

_Yes! _something inside of Sansa cried, but she stopped herself from outright responding so exuberantly. Instead she gave a slow nod, even as she thought that _nice_ wasn't quite a strong enough word for how it would feel to - as Jaime said - "follow her heart".

"You may want to deal with this situation fairly soon, Sansa. I'm not the only person you'll be disappointing, should you and Sandor decide to wed."

"I know...but Jaime, I have to...deal with it...in my own time."

"Would that that could be the case, Lady Sansa...but you gave your word that you would be married, and soon. I'm certain that you can have Sandor Clegane if you want him - " at this, Jaime shook his head, as if he couldn't at all understand how Sansa could _want _Sandor like that - "but you owe it to him, to yourself, and to the men who came here in hopes of gaining your hand, to speak with Clegane as soon as possible and then to make the announcement that you need to make."

"And I will," Sansa replied firmly, laying her hand over Jaime's. "I promise. Can you not trust me in this?"

"I suppose that I must," Jaime sighed. "Come, my lady of Winterfell. You have some pressing matters to deal with and are wanted in the Great Hall." He stood and pulled her up with him, tucking her against his side to support her. Sansa leaned into him and wondered how in the world she would broach this subject of marriage to Sandor - _with _ Sandor.

Jaime must have felt her trembling as they walked; he tightened his hold on her as they made their way across the yard. "You're worried," her faithful golden knight murmured.

Sansa gazed up at him. "I think it would be very silly of me, if I wasn't at least a little bit worried."

They had reached one of the small doorways that led into the holdfast not far from the Great Hall, and Jaime stopped in it and turned to face Sansa, taking her face in both of his hands. "It would be silly of you, I suppose, yet at the same time I'm fairly certain you have no reason to be worried."

A small smile played across Sansa's lips as she reached up and placed her hands over Jaime's. "I can at least hope that that will be the case. Thank you, Jaime. Truly." She leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

But as Sansa pulled away and dropped her hands back down by her sides, she heard an all-too-familiar voice growl, "Well_ excuse_ me for interrupting such a tender moment, Kingslayer, _Lady_ Sansa."

* * *

He felt like an absolute, utter _fool. _How could he not, having thought for even a moment that Sansa Stark would consider marrying himself when she had men like Ser Jaime _fucking_ Lannister groveling at her feet? If he hadn't spoken up, interrupted their little moment in the doorway, who knows how far things would have gone? Sansa blushed fiercely and practically tripped over her own two feet as she backed away from the Kingslayer, though Jaime merely looked amused over the interruption - which angered Sandor even more.

"Ah, Clegane. Just the man Sansa needed to see," Jaime smiled, clearly gloating over what Sandor had just witnessed. Sandor couldn't help but notice the panicked way that Sansa looked at Jaime, and he curled his lip in disgust at the entire situation.

"Yes, I can tell that's exactly the case," Sandor replied sarcastically.

"Always have to be angry about something, don't you, Clegane?" There was mirth in Jaime's tone, but none in his eyes, and Sandor felt his hands automatically clenching into fists as he wondered how much it would take to wipe that expression off the Kingslayer's face - until Sansa spoke up, clearly exasperated with the both of them.

"Enough!" she snapped, giving Jaime a withering look before stepping forward to lay a hand on Sandor's arm. "Jaime is right, Sandor. There is something that you and I need to discuss."

Sandor looked wildly from her to Jaime, wondering if they were truly trying to corner him and force him to listen to the tale of how they'd fallen in love despite it all - or perhaps _because_ of it all is the way that they would go - and that they would be wed before the next turn of the moon or some such nonsense. "I don't think ___you and I _need to discuss anything," he snarled, yanking his arm away from her touch. For a moment he felt something like pleasure at the shock and hurt that registered on Sansa's face - just for a moment, though, for it barely took that long for her to set her jaw in that wolf-bitch way and step closer to him, her hand raised and one finger jabbing into his chest in a most unladylike manner.

"I will not stand here and suffer your misplaced anger," Sansa said shrilly. "I am going to my solar, and you are coming with me, Clegane. In fact, Jaime will see that you do." She nodded to the Kingslayer, and Sandor found himself laying a hand on the hilt of his sword in warning - until another glance at Sansa made him drop that hand back to his side and follow her as meekly as a tamed pup, Jaime Lannister close on his heels to make sure that Sandor continued to obey their mistress.

Once they'd reached Sansa's solar, Sandor was surprised when she summarily dismissed Jaime, shutting the door behind her golden knight and locking it with a resounding _click. _For a moment she remained there, her back to him, taking slow, deep breaths in an obvious attempt to calm herself. When she finally turned to face him, Sansa's expression was at once nervous and sad. "Why must you make everything so_difficult?" s_he asked softly, and the pleading tone of her voice nearly broke Sandor's heart.

"Wouldn't be me if I didn't," he grunted, wondering if she would take this admission for the apology that it was.

Sansa sighed, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them again she reached out and took his hand; though the gesture disquieted him Sandor let her lace her fingers through his and lead him to the table and chairs under the window, the place where she did her reading every single day. She sat, and he followed suit, and though she still didn't let go of his hand Sandor could tell that she was avoiding his gaze. Finally Sansa bit her lip and glanced up at him from the corners of her eyes.

"It is true that it is past time for me to marry," she blurted out. Confused, Sandor found himself speechless for once; he could only nod in reply and wait for her to continue.

When she did, he had to wonder if he was in fact dreaming. "At times I think I must be going insane, loving you as I do," Sansa began, the words spilling from her mouth as if she couldn't speak them fast enough. "I thought that if I found a good man and married him, I could banish you from my head, if not entirely from my heart. But as much as I've enjoyed getting to know some of those who came to Winterfell in hopes of wooing me...and as much as I care for another who offered his hand...it turns out that you are the only man I want, the only man to whom I can possibly give myself. Yet...I would not...would not want you to feel..._obliged, _to have me. You will be welcome to stay at Winterfell regardless; I'm not quite sure Rickon would have it any other way, and - "

"Seven hells, little bird, stop your damned chirping," Sandor ordered impatiently. "What do you mean, you don't want me to feel _obliged_?" He laughed, a harsh bark of a sound. Could she truly believe that he would feel anything of the sort? Does she have no idea how I've longed for her, all of these years? But somehow he couldn't bring himself to actually ask these questions...instead he lurched to his feet, forcing Sansa to stand with him, pulling her body against his so that they were pressed together in what could almost - or perhaps only - be called a lovers' embrace. He could feel her trembling and had to tamp down the anger that rose in him, had to tell himself that after a confession like that she certainly couldn't be _frightened_ of him...

As tenderly as he could manage, Sandor reached up and brushed a loose lock of hair out of Sansa's face, tucking it gently behind her ear as he bent his head toward hers. "Why do you think I've remained here at Winterfell for all these years, little bird?" he murmured against her mouth, before finally, _finally, _pressing his lips to hers.

* * *

There had been kisses in Sansa's past...not so many of them, perhaps, but enough that it was only the work of a moment for her to understand how very different Sandor's embrace was. There was such furious fire between them that she felt as if she could melt into him, and she let him kiss her for much longer than she probably should have, reveling in the conflicting feel of his lips...nearly unbelievably soft on one side, yet rough and ridged on the other.

Eventually Sansa had to break their kiss, and when she did she was breathless and smiling as she stopped him from covering her mouth with his a second time. "Was that your way of saying yes?" she asked - but rather than answer, Sandor just crushed her body against his again, his hands gripping the curves of her hips in a way that made Sansa want to divest herself of her clothes and give herself to him, totally and completely. "I think I need to hear you say the word, before I tell all of these other suitors that I've made my choice and that it is time for them to leave," she insisted.

A low growl sounded, deep in Sandor's throat. "All right then, little bird. Yes, if you need me to say it. _Yes."_

Sansa was smiling so much that her face ached, and she reached up and cupped her hands against Sandor's face, brushing her fingertips over his opposing cheeks and marveling at the fact that this skin that felt so different under each of her hands belonged to just one person. "You know that this means that you must be by my side whenever I want you there?" she teased. She could not help but feel immediately happy and comfortable with Sandor; it was as if, despite the fact that they certainly could not have been intended for each other, all that they'd needed to get to this point was to mend the broken pieces and frayed edges of their pasts.

Sandor chuckled, a rasping yet endearing sound that made Sansa want to kiss him again and again and again. "And you know that this means that you'll have to give yourself to me...in _every _humanly way possible?" he murmured, reaching up with one finger and tracing it along her jawline, down her neck and over her collarbone, before tucking it into the neckline of her gown and giving it a light tug.

"Not right this moment, though," Sansa replied, batting his hand away. "First, I have several other men to disappoint...and then you and I must visit the godswood and exchange some vows, I suppose." The corner of her mouth quirked up when Sandor gave a frustrated grunt in response.

"Haven't I waited long enough for you, little bird? Haven't _we _waited long enough for _each other_?" He bent closer and pressed his lips into the crook of her neck, sending a shiver down Sansa's spine. She wanted more than anything to agree that yes, they had waited long enough - _too long, really_ - but she also knew that in marrying Sandor she was taking a big enough leap as it was. And as much as she wanted him just now - she could, in fact, feel her desire pulsing within her with a white-hot energy - there were, unfortunately, things that they must do first. Sansa took Sandor's face in her hands again and made him look at her.

"I know that waiting is not at all what you want just now, but I have promises to keep. I haven't held on to my maidenhead this long for nothing."

"I suppose you haven't," Sandor growled. "All right, then, I'll gather up a bit more patience...but let's make quick work of this, nonetheless. Perhaps I won't wait forever, little bird."

He was teasing, of course. Funny how it could take just a few minutes for all of the barriers between them to collapse and for her to know Sandor, his mind and his heart and his soul, completely. Sansa gave him an almost gentle, lighthearted slap on the shoulder with the flat of her palm. "I think if I asked you to wait forever, you would. Lucky for you, I have no desire to request such a thing. And now I believe that the sooner we get started, the better. Shall we make for the Great Hall and begin spreading our good news?"

"Yes, fine, let's do just that," Sandor capitulated, releasing her from his hold and then offering his arm like a proper escort. Sansa tucked her hand into his elbow and smiled radiantly up at him as they took their first true steps _together._


End file.
